Prologue

The trees were sweating. They seemed to cringe back with pallid complexions, clutching at the grey sky with spindly fingers as if they were choking― frightfully grabbing at the mist as if it were some revered security blanket. I could have sworn (if they had mouths) that they were trying their hardest not to suck their little green thumbs in childlike anxiety, pretending to be mature in dealing with death.

But dealing with my one little matchstick ― not even lit! ― held in my palm, glistening uselessly with condensation, was a case of pointless worry. Perhaps if they had eyes they would have known that. Perhaps if I didn't, I would've seen the danger…